How He Came To Care
by Himekun
Summary: This is the story of how John Watson came to care for Sherlock Holmes without realising it.  T for minor drug references.
1. Chapter 1: A Dangerous Night

**AN: This is probably going to be a many chapter-ed fic, about how John came to care for Sherlock Holmes. The storyline will be more of a slow romance because I always enjoy those most, but hopefully, if you enjoy it, you'll stick with it. The first chapter isn't very lively and the subsequent ones will probably be longer, but I hope you like it, and please, even if not, I always appreciate reviews.**

* * *

><p>Sherlock couldn't sleep. Whatever he did he just couldn't sleep. They'd been on a case for two days straight and John had practically passed out as soon as they had returned to the flat. But here was the sound of the clock tower ringing three times and still sleep evaded the exhausted detective.<p>

The thing was, his mind just would not _stop_!

Over and over he kept seeing the various scenes of the past days flash in his mind as if on fast forward. There seemed to be an unintelligible running commentary in the back ground that was going over the clues, snippets of overheard conversation, snatches of music, yet the case was solved!

And still he couldn't sleep.

* * *

><p>John had woken suddenly and it took him a minute to realise it must have been because of the almost crippling thirst that he suddenly felt. Blearily he reached clumsily for the small digital alarm clock that he knew was <em>somewhere<em> on the side table. He groped around for several minutes before giving in and switching on the lamp, hissing at the sudden intrusion of light. He sat up slightly squinting around the small room.

"Sherlock?" He rubbed his eyes and frowned as he saw the familiar form of the detective sat frozen, hugging his knees staring at John unblinkingly with a look that made John's frown deepen.

"Sherlock, are you alright?" Sherlock continued to stare at him as his mouth twisted into a derisive grimace. He shook his head slightly, almost disbelievingly at the stupidity of his flat mate.

"Yes John, I am perfectly alright, that is why my pulse is raised and my muscles tensed and why I can't _sleep_!"

John stood up slowly, trying to push away his sleepy stupor. Sherlock began chewing on his bottom lip.

"It won't stop John- my mind it just won't stop it just keeps going and going and going and just won't _SHUT UP_!" He was shaking his head, moving his hand towards his hair as if to begin pulling it out.

"Alright Sherlock. Alright." John replied calmly but with a tone of authority. He walked towards the man he knew so well and gently peeled his hands away from his hair and held them tight in his own. He bent down slightly so he was looking Sherlock directly in the eyes. He had seen him like this only a few times before- his eyes unfocussed, his breathing erratic, an air of hopeless frenzy about him. John's thirst was utterly forgotten.

"Sherlock, I want you to listen to me, have you taken anything?" Sherlock clenched and unclenched his hands inside of John's and rolled his eyes.

"Do really think I'd be like this if I had!" He spat. "_Dear Mrs Hudson_ threw out all of my chemicals. I can't even improvise!" John made a mental note to thank Mrs Hudson sincerely, whilst trying to figure out what to do.

"Sugar," he said suddenly. "You need sugar, here." He temporarily released the detective and fetched a small pack of overly sweetened chewing gum out of his top draw. He had picked it up just by chance when he'd gone to buy milk the other day. He presented the packet to Sherlock who stared at it blankly. John took out a stick, unwrapped it, and held it out.

"I want you to take it and chew it." Sherlock glared at him, obviously about to argue when John opened his mouth again.

"If you don't I will call Mycroft for assistance."

Grudgingly, Sherlock took the stick and placed it in his mouth.

"Good, now, take your jacket off." John watched the detective pull at the jacket, almost threatening to rip it as it got caught around his elbow. John merely reached out and gently but firmly removed it for him.

Next he convinced Sherlock to stand and he removed his trousers. In any other situation, John would have been extremely embarrassed to be removing Sherlock Holmes' trousers, but right now he had greater concerns. His friend stood before him, eyes darting around as his hands kept clenching and unclenching, wearing nothing but a shirt and his underwear.

"Sherlock, no arguments, I want you to get into the bed please." He held the sheets up and waited expectantly. Sherlock laughed harshly but complied.

"How will you explain this Doctor Watson? Ordering your flat mate into bed- people will talk." His tone was harsh and cutting. John paused, licked his lips and looked to the ceiling. Oh why couldn't he have just ignored Stamford when he had suggested a flat share, he could be curled up asleep in his cold army pension flat, not dealing with a manic ex-addict.

He moved around to the other side of the bed and climbed in, silently. Sherlock was sat in a similar position he had occupied on the chair, chewing the sweet gum rather ferociously. John leant across him and placed the nearly full packet on the table next to Sherlock. Sherlock snatched another piece and continued chewing. John nodded approvingly.

In Afghanistan some of the soldiers would chew gum when they ran out of cigarettes, it helped with the craving they said. John also knew that sugary items were often consumed by recovering cocaine addicts. He hoped that somehow this would work on Sherlock.

He lay back in silence for nearly half an hour, his eyes stinging with tiredness as he watched his friend. Sherlock had stopped clenching his hands and appeared to be blinking furiously. John knew he must be exhausted. He had neither slept nor eaten for nearly three days, which was probably what had brought on this current state.

Yawning slightly, John reached out and pulled at Sherlock's sleeve until the detective complied, moving to lie on his side in the foetal position, his face several inches from John's. He still chewed the gum compulsively.

John smiled sadly at the man. Sherlock's eyes merely flicked over his face, blank of expression. His hands were tucked under his chin and John reached out for one, blinking as Sherlock consented to meet the doctor half way and gripped his hand with a strength that John knew meant he was scared. However deep down and unconsciously, Sherlock Holmes was scared.

John shifted closer, moving fully onto his side and pressing Sherlock's hand to his chest. He reached out his other hand and began stroking the detective's dark curls, watching some of the tension leave his dear friend.

It didn't really strike John that this was an odd position to be in. For once he was hardly aware of how compromising and intimate the gestures were, all he knew was that Sherlock needed to be calmed, he needed to be safe.

Slowly, the detective's eyes began to droop and his chewing became less frequent. John had found he was practically holding Sherlock now, their hands still clasped against his chest, but the pressure more relaxed. As Sherlock's eyes finally closed, John moved to his back again and Sherlock instinctively nestled his head into the doctor's shoulder, making John smile at the pure innocent childishness of the action. He pulled the blankets a little tighter, ensuring they were both well covered and finally relaxed. It barely took his two minutes to fall asleep, both of them exhausted and comfortable in each other's arms.

That night at least, Sherlock Holmes was safe.


	2. Chapter 2: The Importance of Breakfast

**AN: I pretty much wrote the first two chapters together so I thought I might as well update. This is my first attempt at a Sherlock crime scene deduction so please don't hesitate to tell me if you find it unrealistic. As I said, it's going to be slow, certainly at first, so please keep with me. Thank you for the reviews, please don't hesitate to comment again, it's always much appreciated. **

* * *

><p>When John woke the next morning he knew something was different. He looked down to find Sherlock curled up, sound asleep against his chest.<p>

It took him precisely five seconds to freak out and about a minute to remember how they had come to be in this situation. He didn't dare move for fear of waking the sleeping detective- he was not quite ready for the awkwardness that would ensue.

So he waited. He waited, thinking, desperately. Last night he had merely been acting on automatic. It was entirely normal to do so when confronted with such a situation, and bodily contact was proved to reduce levels of stress and anxiety. But it still felt weird to have the weight of Sherlock's head on his chest and the dark curls tickling his chin. It wasn't repulsive exactly it just felt... unnatural, odd.

This train of thought halted as he caught sight of the now empty chewing gum packet on the side. He turned ever so slightly to look at Sherlock's face. His lip was raw and had marks of dried blood around it where he had been chewing it, but apart from that he seemed relaxed. Deciding he could put it off no longer, John brought a hand to his shoulder and gently shook the man awake.

"Sherlock? Sherlock, wake up." Sherlock's eyes burst open and he sat up suddenly.

"John?" He shook his head dazedly and turned to look at his flat mate, quickly taking in the bed, the chewing gum wrappers and his abandoned clothes. He blinked, licked his lips tentatively and swallowed.

"I er, last night, I..."

"Sherlock it's not what you..."

"It was nice... of you... to, er, help me. Thank you." And in a typically Sherlock action he held out his hand awkwardly. John stared at it, raised his eyebrows, frowned, and then shook it, rather awkwardly.

"Right. No problem, I am your doctor after all." He smiled, awkwardly. There was a silence.

"I'll go for a shower now." John muttered more to himself than Sherlock, quickly leaving the bed and clearing his throat. The detective looked after him and frowned.

* * *

><p>Sherlock wandered into the kitchen to find a plate of toast and jam waiting, a cup of tea beside it. He stared at it for a minute.<p>

"Problem?" He turned to see a freshly washed and dressed John sipping his own mug of tea whilst leaning against the door frame.

"Toast?"

"Yes. Congratulations, once again your wondrous observational skills astound me." Sherlock turned to pull a face at the doctor.

"You can't really expect me to eat this, the jam is far too sticky." He picked up the mug and sniffed it. "And I only take one sugar in my tea, this has about three in it. Are you trying to poison me?" John rolled his eyes, placed his mug on the side counter and proceeded towards his friend.

"You haven't eaten for three days," he pulled the chair out. "Your blood sugar is dangerously low," he placed his hands on the man's shoulders. "Just for my sake," he pushed the detective into the chair rather forcefully. "Eat the damn toast."

Sherlock pondered for a minute. "How did you know my blood sugar-" John held up a small glucose meter.

"I've developed a habit of taking your blood sugar when you're asleep. There are enough dead body parts lying around this flat without you adding to them. Now eat the toast." Sherlock grinned and instantly began munching his breakfast.

"You know, Mycroft really should pay you more, for keeping me alive and such."

"Mycroft doesn't pay me- where did you get that idea from?" He replied, rather astounded.

"Well, you won't accept the money. But I'm not an idiot John, I know what he offered you. And frankly, I think that amount was an insult. I am far more high maintenance that £4000 a month." John stared at Sherlock finding himself tempted to laugh.

"How-" But the doorbell interrupted him.

"Someone's been murdered. Excellent."John turned around at Sherlock's mutter.

"Pardon?"

"Never mind." He stood up, his silk dressing gown swirling imperiously as he stalked towards the door and opened it wide. "Lestrade," he sang cheerily, taking the man's hand and shaking it enthusiastically. "Do please come in and tell me you have someone dead somewhere."

Lestrade raised an eyebrow and looked towards John who shook his head as if to say- you've got about as a good a guess as anyone one mate.

"Unfortunately yes. Weird though, there's no head. Of course, I instantly thought of you." He smiled sarcastically.

"No head?" Sherlock's eyes sparkled. John could see where this was going.

"Will you come?" Sherlock grinned.

"We'll be there in ten minutes, text me the address." And with that Sherlock abandoned them both and hurried off, presumably to dress.

Lestrade nodded at John before walking out of the doorway. John sighed heavily and looked over to the kitchen table.

Sherlock had only eaten half his breakfast.

* * *

><p>John and Sherlock followed Sergeant Donovan down a narrow alleyway between two empty dock buildings bickering. When they reached the others Sally sighed. "Freak's had a tiff with his lover. Don't expect much."<p>

"Sherlock it was half a piece of toast- half!"

"John there are more important things in life than food!"

"Not if you drop dead in front of me there aren't. How the heck am I supposed to pay the rent on my own-"

"Ah, good morning." Lestrade's overly loud voice interrupted, bringing them both back to reality and John at least had the grace to look mildly abashed when he realised they were in the presence of a dead body. Well, most of one.

"Meet Mr Smith, the headless wonder." Sherlock brushed past the detective inspector and instantly bent down over the headless corpse to begin examining it with his magnifying lens. John watched him for a minute before turning to Lestrade.

"Mr Smith?"

"He had an ID bracelet on, he's diabetic."

"Ah." He was about to ask some more questions when Sherlock called him over.

"John, come and look at this." The doctor went and inspected the tips of the dead man's fingers which were being held up to him.

"Needle marks?" Sherlock nodded.

"And look here, there's a trace of powder- heroin I think." He reached over to the man's other wrist.

"An overdose?" John adjusted himself so he was crouched on one knee.

"If it was an overdose why would they take the man's head. No John, look, really look!" Sherlock was staring at him with that mixture of excitement and frustration.

John picked up the left hand and examined the fingertips again. He leant over and took the magnifying lens out of Sherlock's hand and spent a full minute assessing the marks.

"Well, there's no trace of residue, hardly even a blood stain. But they definitely tapped into a vein. But what on earth did they inject him with?" He turned to look at Sherlock who was obviously bursting to comment.

"Go on then genius, tell us your theories."

Sherlock moistened his lips, his hands hovering over the body. "Well, look at his clothes, shirt's not too expensive but not that cheap either, his trousers look like they're part of a suit, not a manual job then, and the material is slightly more worn on the backside. Probably an office job. His hands an nails are clean but his tie is loosened and has an ink stain on it, biro. I'd guess he's some cubicle worker, spends his days filling out forms, that ink isn't dark enough to be from a fountain pen, a professional man would be more likely to use an expensive pen, therefore indicating the forms he fills out are mainly internal or burocratic, not important enough for a posh pen. Probably civil service." He added with a slight sneer. He took a breath.

"The calluses on his right middle finger indicate he is right handed, and so the needle marks are unlikely to be self inflicted as to be sure of reaching to vein you would need a steady hand. The powder, however, is on the left hand, possibly left by someone leaning over him, someone who works with drugs then. To get the residue on the body in that position she would either have to have to have dosed herself up over the body- unlikely- and so probably has frequent contact with the production area to get powder on her clothing. The trouble taken to remove the head obviously means something in it or on it was of importance to the killer, and look at these marks, they're not the marks of an amateur, this says more a surgical hand. Therefore I would say the best bet so far is a female, approximately twenty-five to forty, medium height and build, probably with medical or vetenary experience with connections to a heroin production ring. Quite possibly if the killer is connected to the medical word they know Mr Smith through his frequent trips to the hospital or pharmacy to collect his insulin, though this is not for certain and his diabetic condition could of course be a mere coincidence."

John stared at him.

"Brilliant." Sherlock smiled slightly.

"Female, how on earth do you know it's a female? And the killer could be any age!" John grimaced as Sherlock stood to face Anderson.

"Footprints Anderson. Surely a forensic _expert_ like yourself should have noticed those. The small heel mark indicates a very high heal, medium pressure in the mud, hence the height and weight of said female. To my experience women wearing that high a heal are likely to be between the ages of eighteen and forty, include the years required to gain that amount of skill with a knife and we narrow it to twenty-five to forty. Honestly I do wonder how you cope sometimes." He turned rather sharply and then stumbled.

Anderson was about to make a cutting reply but John quickly stood and caught his flat mate. Sherlock shook his head slightly and tried to stand straight again but only proceeded in stumbling again, this time falling against John who wrapped his arm around the detective's waist and held a hand up to his forehead.

"I knew you should have had breakfast." He muttered. He turned slightly to call towards Lestrade.

"I hope you've got all you need for now. I need to get Sherlock some food before he collapses completely. Call if you need us." Not waiting for a reply, John wound his arm tighter around Sherlock's waist and pulled the man's arm across his shoulder.

"This time, Sherlock, you will eat."

* * *

><p>They were sitting in a small cafe just off the main road, the river was still visible from the large windows. It was the first cafe John had found and had forced Sherlock into a seat, ordering sweet tea and a full breakfast for them both, despite protests.<p>

John noticed they had gained some odd looks when he had taken hold of Sherlock's wrists, forcing him to guide the knife and fork onto the plate and feed himself, like a child. He had also gotten a snide comment from some teenagers when, after the meal was finally finished he had reached out and taken Sherlock's hand, turning it gently palm upwards as he took his blood sugar.

When he saw the numbers return to normal a slight tightness in his chest released and he let go of the detective's hand. Sherlock watched him intently for a minute and John began to feel self conscious.

"You were worried about me." Sherlock's voice was both curious and amused.

"Well of course I was worried." John snapped. "After you didn't eat your breakfast and your blood sugar was low and last night- Oh never mind." He cut himself off tiredly and rested his head in his hands.

Only with Sherlock Holmes would someone have to be so conscious of every action, of every movement. If he wasn't getting himself chased or shot at by some murderer then he was achieving almost equally hazardous effects by his disregard for his own health. Sometimes John thought his head might explode.

Suddenly however, he felt a hand awkwardly patting his shoulder. He looked up, confused, and saw Sherlock obviously attempting to comfort him. Oddly enough, it worked, and John burst out laughing. After a second of stunned silence Sherlock began to laugh too. A few more people turned to stare at the odd couple, but neither noticed.

"Sherlock, next time, when I make you breakfast, please just eat it." Sherlock's eyes smiled at him.

"Okay, next time I will." And John grinned.


	3. Chapter 3: Personal Space

**AN: Hello everybody, thank you for all the reviews and alerts and things. Sorry it took me a little while to post this chapter, I had to rework the beginning a bit. I hope you all enjoy it and please review and tell me what you think. Thank you. :)**

* * *

><p>John was watching Sherlock mutter to himself in a way that he knew meant the detective was frustrated. The doctor shifted slightly on the uncomfortable metallic stool providing the only seating in the cold laboratory and sighed. It was near midnight, he was tired, and once again Sherlock had forgotten that the majority of humans required food at some point between midday and dusk.<p>

"Agh!" Sherlock pushed the microscope away from him violently and began pacing feverishly. He paused, glared at the ceiling mournfully and began pacing again. John was simply too tired for this and made his way over to the microscope.

Navigating past Sherlock's still pacing body he rested slightly against the side of the bench, pulling the rejected microscope closer and peering down it, after adjusting its height of course.

"It's blood Sherlock. Just plain old human blood. What's the fuss about?" Sherlock turned to give John a look that told him he was clearly being stupid again.

"John! It's not what is there that is irritating me- it's what isn't there. Look!" And with the command he marched over to John, reaching around the doctor's shoulder to point at a half open forensics file, pressing himself almost completely against the other man's back, trying to look down the microscope again, over John.

John cleared his throat, shifting slightly at the new level of proximity but finding himself trapped by the table, sighed and simply reached for the file.

"Ah, I see." John tried to rub his eyes but found his movement impaired by the fact that Sherlock had resumed his examination of the blood sample, simply ignoring the fact that John was stood between him and the desk. John groaned to find himself imprisoned by two thin, strong arms, Sherlock's chin resting slightly on his head.

Too much. This was too much, he was tired and hungry and-

"Yes, this blood is the headless man's. Therefore you see my problem; both you and I concluded he was injected and that this was the most likely cause of death based on the evidence of what was left." John had almost forgotten he had spoken and was slightly startled at Sherlock's reply, disconcerted by the way he could not only hear the detective's voice, but feel it rumbling through his chest.

Sherlock stepped away from the slide, releasing John and frowned at the ceiling as if it were hiding answers from him. John shivered unconsciously at the lack of warmth he realised his tired body had begun to lean in to. He yawned.

"I don't know Sherlock, you're always the one that says –what is it? Once the impossible's eliminated-"

"Once you eliminate the impossible whatever remains no matter how improbable must be the truth- of course! John you're a genius!" He seized the doctor's shoulders, grinning. John just blinked tiredly, accepting the compliment he had no idea how he had earned.

"We know that the victim was killed by a lethal injection, but we also know there is no trace of such a thing in his blood. Ah –clever!"

"Clever?"

"Air John, air!" Sherlock seemed almost ecstatic. "Just a tiny bubble of air pushed from the syringe into the blood stream. As soon as it got to his heart," he unclasped his hands abruptly, "his heart would stop, and the cause would be almost undetectable." He tailed off in a whisper, his hand placed over John's heart, envisioning the dead man and portraying a look of wonderment.

John however, was not overjoyed to be being compared to a corpse.

"Well, congratulations. Deduction made, point to the genius –_please_ Sherlock, can we go home now?"

Sherlock glanced up and seemed to finally take in his flatmate's state of exhaustion. His forehead puckered slightly into an almost imperceptible frown. He reached around John, pulled a phone out of his friend's back pocket, sent a quick text message, and then nodded.

"Yes, it appears if I keep you awake much longer you may collapse." He reached around to slide the phone back into the doctor's pocket. "Come on, it shouldn't be hard to find a taxi."

* * *

><p>It was the afternoon after Sherlock's ecstatic discovery and John was in the kitchen trying to open a tin of beans with a tin opener that was jarring suspiciously.<p>

"Sherlock, have you been using the kitchen utensils for your experiments again?" He clenched his teeth in a forcedly calm manner as the blade slipped, making a jagged cut into the side of the tin for the third time.

"If it's that thing with the white handles I may have used the circular blade last Tuesday to aid a dissection but I assure you I reassembled it afterwards." John dropped the tin and opener as if he'd been burned.

"You used it in a dissection –Shelock! This is stuff we use for food, cooking, stuff that shouldn't be combined with dissection-not that you'd know anything about it of course with your aversion to all things human." He spoke harshly through clenched teeth. After returning to the flat in the early hours of the morning, Sherlock had decided he needed to think and the persistent plucking of violin strings had prevented John from sleeping till almost dawn.

Needless to say he wasn't in the best of moods.

Sherlock looked at John from where he was sat at the table examining crime scene photographs. His face was unreadable, but his eyes seemed maybe just a little bit... hurt. John rubbed his hand across his face, turning back to pick up the fallen tin but dropped it again suddenly.

"Ouch!" He clutched his hand tightly. One of the jagged cuts in the body of the tin had caught him as he picked it up and gouged out and impressive amount of skin at the base of his thumb. John quickly examined it, concluding that it wasn't deep enough for stitches, whilst hissing slightly at the pain. He was about to move over to the sink to clean it when Sherlock's hand gently lifted John's wounded one towards his face. John was rather startled by the movement and watched the detective's critical gaze quickly examine the cut before raising it to his mouth.

John froze.

Sherlock had calmly closed his mouth around the base joint of John's thumb and had begun sucking lightly, his tongue occasionally tracing the injury. His hand gripped John's firmly so he could not pull away. After a minute, he looked up.

"Sherlock, what the hell are you doing?" The question came out evenly but in a pitch a fraction higher that John's normal voice. Sherlock looked at him, quirking his eyebrow slightly.

"I'm cleaning your wound whilst administering a mild anaesthetic. Surely as a medical man you have read all about the healing and pain killing properties of saliva- therefore you will agree I am performing the action that makes most medical sense."

John felt the need to cover his face with his hands, his cheeks holding the faintest of disturbed blushes at the mention of saliva.

"We have a tap." John yelped slightly. But Sherlock merely sighed before bringing the wound back towards his mouth.

John really didn't know what to do with himself whilst Sherlock 'attended' to his hand. He felt awkward just standing there with part of his hand in his flatmate's mouth and the feel of Sherlock's lips against his skin were slightly disturbing. He noticed they were slightly chapped.

"There we go, seems to have stopped bleeding. How's the pain?" John merely stuttered in reply.

"F-fine. Yeah, fine." And with that Sherlock turned back towards his mess of papers on the table and seemed to give John no further thought. The doctor shook himself slightly, and then decided to go to the bathroom and find a plaster.

He re-entered the kitchen uncomfortably on edge. "We're out of milk again. I'll just pop to the shop." Sherlock gave no answer. "Right."

"Oh John, wait." John turned around quickly. Sherlock held a hand out. "Phone." John restrained from rolling his eyes as he handed his phone over to the detective. He needed some fresh air.

* * *

><p>As he walked round the crowded supermarket John kept trying to imagine how a normal person would react to Sherlock's unique form of first aid. They'd probably find it creepy, he thought. But then most people didn't get that Sherlock had little regard for simple things such as personal space and appropriate social interaction. In fact most people thought Sherlock was a bit of psychopath. Which was foolish really, Sherlock just... he was able to appreciate the brilliance of an action whilst detached from its moral implications.<p>

John sighed, picking up a carton of milk and heading towards the checkout, making sure to find one manned by a human. On the way past a small rack he paused, and, almost involuntarily, picked up a small pot of lip salve.

* * *

><p>When he got back, Sherlock was lying despondently on the sofa, glaring at the ceiling. John waited for a minute.<p>

"I'm back." Sherlock merely grumbled.

"Did Lestrade cut you out again?" Sherlock's only reply was to turn to face the back of the sofa. John took that for a yes. Lestrade had taken to banning Sherlock from accompanying him on routine interviews, apparently he scared the people too much with his startling lack of empathy.

John went over to the kitchen and put the milk away, ignoring the severed ear resting in the meat draw. He moved back to stand over Sherlock and held out the lip salve awkwardly.

Sherlock blinked.

"I... your lips are chapped." Sherlock frowned slightly at him but took the small pot. John scratched his head. "I wanted to apologise. For saying you weren't human, you are human you're just... Sherlock. Anyway, er, thanks, so, I'll go... yeah." He cleared his throat awkwardly. Sherlock stared at him, then nodded.

John dropped himself unceremoniously into the arm chair on the opposite side of the room, picking up the newspaper to hide behind. Maybe Sherlock's social ineptitude was rubbing off on him. He sighed and began reading the recent cricket scores.

One day he would teach Sherlock about personal space, one day –soon.


End file.
